


A Hair's Breadth

by Russica



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Cute, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Injury, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russica/pseuds/Russica
Summary: When people are born, they have a streak of hair the same color and texture as their soulmate’s natural hair.Mycroft Holmes doesn't want to find his soulmate and Greg Lestrade has given up looking. Of course, fate, Sherlock, and plot devices have other ideas to bring the two together.Previously: This Time They're Soulmates. Thanks to LydSqd for the new title!





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there everyone and welcome to a multi-chapter fic. Crazy, I know. This story should end up being 4 or 5 chapters long.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks again to LydSqd for the title suggestion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 sees our boys at the very beginning of their relationship. Soft and pre romance with a dash of Sherlock to get the ball rolling. The current AU in use is also briefly explained.
> 
> Enjoy!

When you're born, a lock of hair will, inexplicably, be the colour and texture of your soulmates. No one understands the phenomenon. It's been studied to death and no one has gotten any closer to understanding why it happens. What has been found is that the lock will change colours as your soulmates does, natural or dyed. You can cover it up but no dyes will permanently stick until after you've met your soulmate. The lock starts to blend with your natural colour the moment you touch your soulmate, creating a hybrid. And if your soulmate should die... it simply fades away.

Mycroft Holmes is born with auburn hair and a small patch of brown right above his left ear. As he grows he keeps the rough patch of hair cut short, the perfect length for the texture. His younger brother is born with a head of dark curls and nestled underneath the back is a straight tuft of strawberry blonde. The two brothers grow up wondering at the little pieces of their soulmates; bemoaning those born with matching hair colours, who can't admire their soulmates uniqueness every day.

The end of the days of wondering starts with an angry comment when Sherlock is 6. His anger at school rounds back on the nearest person; Mycroft. His rage is undiluted and raw. He screams that Mycroft would scare his soulmate off with how fat he is. Mycroft doesn't react to the harsh words, of course not. He now ignores the jibes and taunts from both his sibling and peers. As he grows his fingers linger over the little patch of brown hair less and less. His teen years hit and he finds himself too tall too pale and overweight. He cuts back. Exercises constantly. He distances himself and yet maintains a constant flow of information he can use. He takes control of his life and manipulates the lives of those around him to his advantage.

Mycroft engrosses himself fully in the pursuit of knowledge and power. He tells himself that searching for a soulmate, a grain of sand in the sea of common brown hair, is a ludicrous pursuit. Caring isn't an advantage. He leaves for Uni at 16 and doesn't look back. He joins an elite training course at 18 for both MI5 and 6. He puts the childishness of soulmates behind him, hides the prematurely greying lock beneath layers of strong dyes on the vain hope one will finally stick.

Mycroft doesn't give his soulmate another thought for years, so focused on his career and just keeping Sherlock alive. He propels himself to the top of the food chain to a position that technically doesn't exist. He brushes elbows with royalty and dictators alike and strikes the same fear in both. He keeps himself closed and poised and alert. The Iceman. Then, he meets Greg Lestrade, and everything begins to crumble around him.

Greg isn't anything noteworthy at first glance. A Sergeant on the Drug Task Force, unhappily married, but with an impeccable service record and a very outgoing personality. Mycroft is polite but terse as the man smoothly meets his gaze. He notes the hint of disdain as he reluctantly leads him to lockup. He doesn't give him a second glance after he retrieves Sherlock from the station. He marches his brother out and puts the incident behind him. Two months later and Sherlock is in the hospital, the Sergeant is by his bedside.

* * *

 

"Mr. Holmes," he doesn't look from Sherlock's frail body as he speaks, his voice low and tired. "I believe we have a common interest."

Mycroft hums as he takes up vigil at the end of the bed. Sherlock looks worse than ever.

"If... if he goes to rehab..." Greg scrubs his hands through his silver hair and trails them down his face. "If he gets clean, stays clean, I'll let him work some cold cases."

"That will hardly-"

"It's what I can offer."

Blue eyes narrow against steely brown.

"I've got a friend in Homicide. Until they make my move official, I can't do anything else."

Mycroft regards the man and suddenly notes the deep auburn streak above his left ear. It's cut short and... not at all faded.

"Very well Sergeant. I shall see what I can do."

Greg looks forlornly at Sherlock's pale face for only a moment before a small smile graces his strained features. He seems years younger as he looks fondly at the man.

"He's bloody brilliant. Puts us normal coppers to shame really" he laughs as he stands. "Let me know how he does, yeah?"

He offers a business card and Mycroft is careful to take it without touching his hand. Greg nods and he's gone.

"She's a blonde" Sherlock grumbles, his voice hoarse.

Mycroft closes his eyes momentarily, before looking to his brother and raising an eyebrow. "Rehab. The full time."

"Dull," Sherlock rolls his eyes as he turns on his side, pulling the cover over himself.

"If he receives his transfer I will smooth the way to allowing you access to active scenes. At Sergeant Lestrade's discretion of course."

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge the statement. Mycroft leans a little harder on his umbrella. They remain still, the silence broken only by the beeping of the heart monitor. Mycroft pointedly doesn't think of red hair growing amidst silver, doesn't think of tanned, calloused hands clasped together in an attempt not to fidget. He _certainly_ doesn't touch the short lock of silver hair hidden beneath dyes and tucked discretely behind his ear. He instead pulls to mind his diary and works aimlessly until a movement pulls him back.

Sherlock's curls shake slightly outside the blanket. "So long as it's not dull.

Mycroft accepts the vague statement as the best he's going to get. He straightens his tie, turns heel and leaves.

* * *

 

It's almost six months before Mycroft has reason to contact Greg Lestrade again. Six busy months of putting all the silly soulmate business **firmly**  behind him yet again. Lestrade had been moved officially to Homicide and Major Crimes and was due to be promoted to Detective Inspector soon, much faster if Mycroft has anything to do with it. He'd allowed Sherlock in on a rather high profile murder case and had handled the press with admirable efficiency. Finding someone to put up with Sherlock is a miracle in itself, it was an added bonus that Sgt. Lestrade also kept him sober. He folds his paper and picks up his mobile

 

Greg sits in his office, reading over reports, winding down the last of them when his phone buzzes on his desk.

"Lestrade."

"I believe congratulation are in order Sergeant."

"Mr. Holmes," Greg smiles as he pauses in his paperwork. "Your brother is a right prat, but God if he isn't brilliant."

"Pray he doesn't hear you Sergeant, his ego is overinflated enough as it is."

Greg barks out a laugh and Mycroft finds himself smiling.

"I don't know how you put up with him flouncing about." Greg signs his last bit of paperwork and sighs, leaning back in his chair. "It's been a hell of a week."

Mycroft picks up on the hesitation in his voice. Marital troubles. Fighting.

"Could I interest you in dinner Sergeant? Consider it a token of appreciation for managing Sherlock."

Greg's chair hits the floor rather loudly as he abruptly straightens in it. "Really?"

"I would not offer if I was not sincere."

"Well, I mean, yeah that would be fantastic."

"Excellent, I will send a car. Will 30 minutes suffice?"

"Er, yeah but I'm not-"

"We'll be dining at the Diogenes, a private club of mine, you needn't worry about your state of dress." Mycroft swiftly sends out orders for the car and dinner. "There is a standing rule however, no speaking until you reach my office."

"No talking?"

"It is a place for silent musings and introspection."

"Huh, alright then. See you soon Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed."

Greg doesn't know why he's so giddy as he locks up his office. He can't explain the butterflies in his stomach as the lift opens. A sleek black car is waiting for him when he emerges and he can't help but chuckle. Sitting in the back of the expensive car, with the clean smell of leather assaulting him, he wonders why he's feeling so antsy. His fingers unconsciously move to the little lock of red hair over his ear. He keeps it a tad longer than the rest, enjoying the silkiness.

 

Greg believes in soulmates, spent some time looking for his before settling down with Amanda. She ~~was~~ \- _is_  brilliant. Really. She is. He doesn't know who he's trying to convince. Her soulmate has black hair, the long raven lock proudly sweeps across her bright blonde bangs. They fell in love though, soulmates be damned, and it wasn't unheard of. Greg's parents hadn't been soulmates and their marriage was still going strong. In his own, however... there had been more yelling at one another, more anger, resentment. They both work long hours, have stressful jobs, demanding responsibilities. It was only ever his fault it seemed. His job was too demanding. His hours were unreasonable. He sighs. Maybe he just needs a night away from it all.

* * *

 

The sleek car pulls up in front of a rather Victorian building and Greg is ushered through large oak doors. The hallways are lined with a plush red carpet and several closed doors decorate the sparse halls. In the closest room Greg can see men reading newspapers in luxurious armchairs. They don't even spare him a glance. He's lead down a few hallways to another oak door, it's opened and he slips silently inside, his escort disappearing as quickly as he came.

Mycroft's private room is as luxurious as the rest of the place. The deep red carpets offset by handsome charcoal walls and dark polished furniture. He eyes the dark desk and the chairs on either side, very business like. Behind said desk is a rather large painting of the Queen. A very Mycroft setup, he smiles. The man himself is on his phone near the window. He offers up a brief smile before turning away.

Greg takes in the rest of the large space. There are a few large book shelves lined with impressive leatherbound tomes, a glass liquor cabinet with bottles Greg is afraid to look at too hard, a black leather armchair and matching sofa sit on an expensive looking ornate rug, in front of a dark coffee table, and situated in front of a rather inviting stone fireplace. Greg lets himself fall into the sofa and sighs as he relaxes into it. His eyes slip shut as he leans his head back. Oh yeah. Definitely need a night away.

"Apologies, Sergeant Lestrade."

Greg waves the man off without opening his eyes. "Believe me I get it, and call me Greg."

Mycroft hesitates only a moment as he takes in the man on his sofa. Relaxed and unburdened for the moment.

"Very well, Gregory, you may call me Mycroft. Would you like a drink?" Mycroft moves to the liquor cabinet and pulls a nice scotch out. "I prefer scotch myself, however I do have a fine selection if that's not to your taste."

"Scotch sounds amazing, Mycroft."

Mycroft pours them each a healthy amount into two crystal tumblers. He hands off one, again careful of touching the man, and sits in the chair opposite him.  
  
Greg takes a sip and sighs. "Thanks, Mycroft. I needed this."

Mycroft nods slightly. "You must be hungry Gregory."

As if on cue, a man with a cart enters and placs a covered plate, two glasses, and a water pitcher on the table and hastily departs. Mycroft smiles a bit as Greg glances at the covered plate.

"I do hope you don't mind something simple" he deftly plucks the lid off. "I find comfort food is often appreciated after a tiring day."

Greg smiles, it's wide and filled with gleaming white teeth. Mycroft can't seem to help the little thrill that surges through him.

"I didn't peg you for a fish and chips man, but this is perfect."

Beautifully fried, artery clogging, comfort food and Greg eats like a starving man. Mycroft sips his scotch and wonders just how far he's willing to let this go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Seriously, let me know, I live for your comments.
> 
> Okay so the plan is to let this story take me where it wants to but with a tentative plan to guide it. Chapter 2 should cover Greg and Mycroft's developing relationship starting right where we left off after dinner. Chapters 3 and 4 will be diverging chapters *gasp*, exploring different paths to end up at Chapter 5: Happily ever after.
> 
> Chapter 5 may die or may become an epilogue, again the story is gonna go wherever it likes. Thanks for reading everyone!
> 
> (Slight edit to the mention of Sherlock's hair)


	2. The Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good relationship is founded on trust and friendship, both things in which Mycroft is usually lacking when it comes to other people. Infatuation is a powerful motivator, throw in some bad luck, and a very large house and it makes for a nice start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, chapter two is here and let me tell you... it kicked my butt. I am awful at continuing anything, but I cranked this one out. Please let me know about any errors you may find.
> 
> Enjoy

After dinner, Mycroft listened to Greg bemoan his latest case and Sherlock's antics. Mycroft in turn provided a few instances of younger Sherlock misbehaving; the time he set their garden shed on fire, when he accidentally dyed his hair bright orange, the incident with the lawn gnome. Each tale making Greg laugh harder, his arms wrapped around his stomach as he doubled over. The hours passed comfortably, filled with banter and discussions and laughter. Greg was surprisingly quick witted and Mycroft was shocked to find out just how much they had to talk about. They both had an appreciation for old Noir films, biographies, and good whiskey amongst other things.

They didn't touch much on their personal lives, choosing instead to chat about trivial matters. With every sip of scotch, however, the conversations grew livelier. They slid easily from discussing London transport and crime to the latest Bond movies and sports. Greg named a few of his favorite football players and Mycroft wove ridiculous tales off of imagined deductions. His neutral expression as he explained left Greg gasping for air as he found himself laughing more than he had in ages.

"Ah christ, it's late," Greg finally sighs as he glances at his phone, the hour glares up at him. "Guess I should head out."

Mycroft stands as Greg does, watching him stretch languidly. If he focuses on the small stretch of skin just above his belt, well... Greg sighs again, his hand running over the hair over his left ear. Non-dominent hand, nervous habit.

"Thanks, I needed this," Greg smiles as they walk to the door.

"My pleasure Gregory. Perhaps," he pauses minutely as they reach the door to his office. "We could meet up again. It would be a nice change of pace to know that Sherlock is alive and well without having to track him down."

"Yeah, yeah alright. There's this great café just down from the Met."

"I'm afraid my schedule is quite hectic at the moment, however I shall contact you when I am available."

He pulls a small card from his suit pocket and offers it to Greg. He takes the card, noticing just how far Mycroft keeps their hands.

"The first number is for emergencies, the second is my private mobile," he opens the door for his guest. "It may take a moment to respond, however, I shall get back to you when I can."

Greg chuckles softly. "You're a riot Mycroft. G'Night."

"Good night."

As Greg heads down the hallway Mycroft watches him a touch longer than strictly necessary. His coat flicks around his legs as he walks away; his silver head bowed, looking at the card in his hand. Greg turns back slightly, a grin on his lips and a light in his chocolate eyes, he waves before turning away. Mycroft shuts the door. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

 

Life moves on. Greg finds himself pulled into a whirlwind of activity; murders, robberies, kidnapping. He's promoted to Detective Inspector and a mountain of paperwork drops on top of his usual workload; everything is much less fun to work when the paperwork is _your_ problem. He finds his days starting earlier and ending later more often than not. He starts texting Mycroft in the brief moments of free time he gets, his wit and sarcasm bringing a smile to Greg's face amidst the stress. He wonders sometimes if they'll ever get to meet up again, it'd been three months since he'd had any sort of down time.

Despite his new job, pay rise, and budding friendship; his marriage begins to strain even more so than usual. He tries to get home earlier, calls Sherlock in more, but nothing seems to stick.

"Is this your idea of a joke Greg?"

"Sherlock, please," Greg presses a hand to his eyes. "I just need this wrapped up."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he throws the file back onto Greg's desk. "His sister did it. Really Greg, your marital issues are getting in the way of my work."

"Oh, well, sorry to inconvenience you, your highness," Greg scoffs as he glares at Sherlock. "Believe me I'm working on it."

"Don't be stupid."

Greg frowns at the look Sherlock throws his way. The 'you're missing something obvious' look. "I don't have time for games Sherlock, I'm drowning in paperwork as is."

"Frankly, I find it absolutely idiotic you can't see she's-"

Greg's phone ringing interrupts the beginning of his tirade. Sherlock scoffs and leaves in a huff, slamming the door as he breezes out. Greg just shakes his head.

"Lestrade"

"Hello, Gregory, I do hope Sherlock has been behaving himself."

"Mycroft," he smiles. "Oh yeah, annoying me and my team and acting like a right arse, but yeah, he's behaving."

Mycroft laughs softly and Greg can't help but feel a small bit of pride that he's the one who caused it. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"As it's been some time since we last spoke, I thought I might ask if you'd like to meet."

"Yeah, that'd be-" Greg pauses. He looks at the paperwork cluttering his desk, the case files, he remembers Amanda's anger at how late he'd been getting in. He hesitates in his answer. "That's sounds great, Mycroft, but not today, I've got a mountain of work and the wife isn't too happy with my new hours."

"Of course. My schedule is always fairly busy, perhaps you should decide the day and I shall make the necessary adjustments."

"Right. Yeah, that's- that's brilliant. I'll text you when I'm free, thanks."

"My pleasure Gregory. Take care."

"Yeah, you too."

As Greg ends the call he looks at the phone in his hand. His schedule had been nothing but work, sleep, fight with Amanda, rinse, repeat, for weeks. He definitely needs a break. He groans as he buries his face in his hands. He could put off the paperwork til tomorrow, surprise Amanda by getting home early.

"Donovan!"

His young sergeant pokes her head in quickly. "What's up boss?"

"I'm calling it a day, all this-" he sweeps his hand over his desk. "-can wait til tomorrow. You good?"

"Sure, tell Amanda I said hey."

Greg smiles as she heads back out. She might be young but she's got a good head on her shoulders. If he could nip the petty feud between her and Sherlock, they'd be golden.

* * *

 

Greg walks home, his mind drifting aimlessly. So much work, and stress, too many sleepless nights and early mornings. He focuses on the stairs as he heads to his flat. He throws his coat on the hook and slips his shoes off. He can hear Amanda talking in the kitchen. Quietly, he makes his way over and smiles at his wife as she stirs something on the stove.

"What's for dinner?"

"Greg!"

Greg's smile freezes as Amanda jerks around to face him. The long black strand through her bangs has started to fade. His eyes catch on her hand, no wedding ring. Again. How many times this month alone had she 'forgotten' it? Her eyes dart briefly towards the bedroom and Greg feels his heart begin to pound in his chest and a knot twists in his gut.

"I- I didn't expect you home so soon."

"Yeah. Just paperwork to wrap up." He maintains his smile. "I'll go clean up-"

"No! I mean," she giggles, something that should be flirtatious but instead seems nervous, as she approaches him. "Don't you wanna help with dinner?"

"Sure" he catches her hand that attempts to trail up his chest. "Right after I change."

Before she can protest Greg is down the hall and in their bedroom. The man inside is frantically getting dressed, he doesn't even see him. He closes his eyes a moment, releases a slow breath as his mind conjures the faded spike of blond in the man's black hair.

"Get out."

The man almost jumps out of his skin, tripping over his feet as he stumbles past. He says nothing as he runs out, slamming the front door in his haste. Greg eyes Amanda at the end of the hallway but stays silent. He packs a bag. She begs and pleads with him not to go, but he's not listening. His mind is completely numb as he barges past her. His eyes sting as he throws his coat back on and pulls on his shoes.

"Don't wait up."

His voice is surprisingly steady. He swallows the lump in his throat as he drops his wedding ring to the table. He doesn't look back as he closes the door.

* * *

 

Mycroft sits in his office, finishing the last of some tedious mission plan or another when his PA enters. She doesn't look up from her BlackBerry and Mycroft doesn't look from his papers. The usual.

"Sir, I believe Detective Inspector Lestrade may be in need of assistance."

"And that is my problem how?"

She glances up, her look conveying just what she really thinks about that statement. "Monitor 4, sir." With that she turns heel and leaves.

Mycroft sighs, inwardly cursing himself for caring at all about the Detective he barely knows. Outwardly, glaring at the door after his rather _nosey_ , if not irreplaceable, assistant. Really, they had one dinner and one tense conversation at Sherlock's bedside, no reason for any sort of _feeling_. Certainly no reason for Anthea to be so.... her, about it. Still, he flips on monitor 4 and stops cold. On the screen is Gregory, sitting in an alleyway outside of a pub near his flat. Drinking, not quite drunk, left his flat, bag packed for an extended stay-

"-Oh dear." He punches a number into his phone and grows more impatient with every ring.

"What do you wa-?"

"Did you tell Gregory about his wife's affair?"

"...Since when do you call him Gregory?"

"Sherlock. This is not the time, answer me."

"It's obvious."

"To you and I perhaps, but that is not the point. Did you tell him?"

There's a pregnant pause and for a moment Mycroft considers the possibility that Gregory may leave both of their lives for this particular intrusion. Sherlock had no right to meddle with the one person who showed him an iota of respect. To put his whole new path on the razors edge just to be smart about something.

"No."

Mycroft presses a hand to his mouth as the line goes dead. Wordlessly, he leaves his office, not at all surprised at the idling black car waiting for him.

* * *

 

Greg sits on the damp pavement, the asphalt and bricks chill his skin. He stares, unseeing, at some flyer or another just across the way. He'd considered just drinking himself into oblivion, but realized pretty quickly that that would be a terrible idea. He had no idea who to ask for help, no clue where he was staying that night, getting plastered would just lead to more heartache. Tipsy and desolate, he sat down in an alley and now he's just... existing. He drops his head when it begins to drizzle, his hand clenching tightly into his hair. If a few hot tears manage to slip, you wouldn't know it for the rain, and if his shoulders shake ever so slightly, well, you might not know for the dark.

It feels like an eternity before Greg notices the rain has stopped hitting him. In his peripheral he sees polished shoes and deep blue trousers. He tilts his head up and finds Mycroft, holding an umbrella, and looking around nonchalantly, as if he and his three piece suits usually hung out in dirty alleyways.

"Mycroft..." A gloved hand is offered and he takes it without a second thought. "What are you er, what're you doin here?" He's hauled to his feet with a surprising ease.

"I believe I could ask you the same thing."

Greg looks to his own scuffed shoes and sighs. He picks his bag up and wipes the water from his face. "You probably already know."

Mycroft offers a sad smile. "Yes, but often times people are rather put off by that."

"Well, I guess I know why Sherlock was calling me an idiot." He laughs softly, a sad humorless thing.  
  
"Sherlock is crass, come along."

Mycroft gently guides him to the waiting car and Greg simply folds into the warm leather, too exhausted to question it. Mycroft quickly slides in beside him and raps twice on the dividing window. Greg stares at the black upholstery as the car glides easily through the London streets. The two ride on in silence for some time until Greg looks out the window. Gorgeous high end flats line the streets.

"Where are we going?"

"My home, I hope that is alright."

Greg stares at the large gates the car pulls through and the long, well lit driveway ahead. "You're.... you'd let me stay with you?" Greg looks to Mycroft incredulously.

"Of course," he glances down to his phone, playing off the meaningful gesture. "Unless you have somewhere else you'd like to go."

"No, no, it's fine I just," Greg laughs nervously as he grins back at Mycroft. "I just didn't expect it."

Mycroft hums vaguely as Greg takes in the massive house coming into view. The brick house seems divided into sections; one section is rounded and tower like, a balcony stretching across the front and three large windows lining both the first and second story. The middle is set lower, with a triangular entryway and three more windows on the second floor. The third segment is much like the first, sans balcony, with smaller windows and a third floor. Immaculately trimmed hedges and well placed trees seem to block the house from view from the roadway. Greg gapes as he steps from the car.

"Christ."

"I have a more modest flat nearer to work, however solitude seemed appropriate in this case."

Greg barely manages to nod as Mycroft ushers him inside. The two hang their coats, and remove their shoes. Mycroft props his umbrella in a small stand.

"A quick tour of the house and then I'll show you to your room."

Through the doors is a hardwood entryway and a modest staircase with polished hardwood flooring. Onwards to an open reception area, cream armchairs are offset by deep black shelving stocked with an impressive amount of books. Next, is an open dining area, Mycroft waves to a closed door, calling it his private study before moving on. Through a set of frosted french doors is a beautiful open kitchen with a gorgeous island in the middle, stocked with every gadget Greg can imagine and then some. It connects directly with a private living area furnished with a large, tan, rounded couch, deep brown rug, more bookshelves, and an impressively sized TV hanging on the wall. Several clear French doors, the curtains tied back, reveal a well manicured lawn overflowing with flowers of every sort. Three bedrooms line a hall just off the living area. The master bedroom turns out to be on the first floor  
in the back. Greg's room for the night is situated right beside Mycroft's, followed by another small bedroom near the front of the house. Mycroft mentions two more bedrooms and another study on the second floor and an extra space for storage on the third.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Honestly, I think a hot shower and some sleep is all I want right now."

Mycroft smiles softly. "There is an ensuite in your room, it should be fully stocked."

"Thanks, Mycroft, for everything."

"No thanks are necessary Gregory, good night."

"Night."

 

Greg's room is as nice as the rest of the house. Cream carpeting offset by deep blue walls and matching bedset, the tables and dresser are the same dark wood as the rest of the house. His ensuite is a thing of beauty, one of those large showers with jets from every wall takes up a quarter of the room while a luxurious tub is situated next to it. Greg let's the scalding water wash away his worries and the jets soothe his aching body. Once the chill is firmly banished from his body, and he's slightly woozy from the steam, he manages to dry off before falling into the plush queen sized bed and promptly passing out.

* * *

Greg wakes up after what is probably the best sleep of his entire life. He nestles deeper into plush covers and sighs into the warmth. He could lay in bed all day, but thoughts of the previous day begin to creep in. He reluctantly decides to start his day. He throws on a pair of sweats and a black tee before roaming out of his borrowed room.

When he finally makes his way out to the kitchen he's greeted by a rather intriguing sight; Mycroft, humming to some  _ridiculous_ pop music playing through hidden speakers, and lightly swaying to the beat, as he cooks something that smells absolutely delicious. Greg silently takes a seat at the kitchen island, his head propped on one fist and a goofy grin plastered on his face. Mycroft, three piece suits for all occasions, Holmes cooking, in what appear to be black plaid pyjama pants and a plush red robe. Greg might be enjoying the sight of the posh man loosening up. He also might be recording a bit on his mobile, for blackmailing purposes naturally.

Mycroft turns and jumps when he sees his guest. Greg's eyes crinkle as his grin grows wider.

"Don't mind me," he waves his free hand at him. "Keep doing what you're doing."

Mycroft ignores the heat rising to his face. "How did you sleep?"

"Best I've had in a while, thanks. Pancakes?"

"Yes." Mycroft makes quick work, flicking the stove off before setting out a few plates on the island filled with pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast alongside a small bowl of fruit. Greg's stomach rumbles as the intoxicating aromas surround him. Mycroft hands him a cup of coffee before taking a seat across from him.

"Amongst other things."

Mycroft smirks as he turns the music off. Greg rolls his eyes as he piles a plate full amd tucks in.

"God, Mycroft, this is fantastic," he manages through a forkful of eggs.

Mycroft preens slightly under the compliment but says nothing as he scrolls through his morning emails. The morning passes in relative quiet. After breakfast Greg helps tidy up, despite heavy protest, and the two sit and sip their coffee and tea in the kitchen. Greg laughs at Mycroft's fluffy red robe and Mycroft scoffs at his 'Anarchy in the UK' shirt. Greg notices Mycroft has a few silver hairs beginning at his left temple before he excuses himself. Greg follows suit and the two reemerge, ready for the day. Mycroft wishes Greg luck with his day and Greg manages the barest smile as he watches one sleek car pull away and another take its place. He slides into comfortable leather and takes a few calming breaths.

"Nearest courthouse please."

* * *

The next six months are a nightmare. Amanda doesn't even try to fight the divorce, some part of Greg had hoped maybe she cared just a little about their 15 years together. Mycroft is charming and fun and completely throws Greg for a loop when he tells him he can stay as long as he needs. For two months Greg learns Mycroft's little habits, things he likes, dislikes, how to make him laugh and smile, really smile, not that fake thing he puts on for the public. Little by little they start to become friends.

Good things never seem to last; Greg moves out and he finds the lack of company depressing. His small flat feels enormous and lonely. Only 6 months for the decree absolute to come, he has a feeling Mycroft may have pulled some strings. Life goes on. His new schedule becomes work, eat, sleep, repeat, broken only by his weekly visit with Mycroft. The bright spot in his weeks. Of course, Mycroft had been nothing but radio silence or one word responses for nearly a month, and Greg was getting worried.

One night, as Greg lays in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, he finds that he misses Mycroft's banter and calming presence. He should miss his wife but he finds he can't, the trust was gone. He wonders if Mycroft is alright, normally their weekly visits ran like clockwork every Sunday. He checks his phone, 0114 glows back at him. He rubs a hand across his face-

_Knock... Knock..._

Two loud thuds send Greg upright in his bed.  Slowly, he slips out and makes his way to the living room. His eyes land on the door-

_Knock..._

The single hit is hard but slow. Greg wonders who the hell would be at his door at 1 in the morning....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? I live for your feedback <3
> 
> The next chapter is option 1 of the 2 diverging chapters. I ask your opinion readers: Sweet/Angst or Dark/Angst?
> 
> Until next time!


	3. Run From Your Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's job is dangerous, Sally is overworked, Sherlock is an arse, and Greg just wishes he had a say in all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Week 3 and still going strong! This chapter is actually the shortest but it was the easiest to write. 
> 
> I got all votes for Sweet/Angst so I hope I don't disappoint. It's only a mildly sweet/angsty chapter, I couldn't put more sweet without starting on the final chapter so you'll have to hold out.
> 
> Remember! This is part 1 of 2 diverging chapters, next week will be a rewrite of events continuing from chapter 2, so it'll be 2 weeks before the (possible) conclusion of the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The single hit is hard but slow. Greg wonders who the hell would be at his door at 1 in the morning...._

 

"Oy I'm comin" he groans as the person bangs louder on the door. Greg opens the door and purses his lips at the young man leaning against the wall. "Can I help you mate?"

"Aye fuck, this'nt my flat" he slurs, almost falling into the floor.

"Nah, I think you're a floor off."

"Ta."

Greg shakes his head as the young man toddles off. "Just my luck." He shuts the door and heads back to bed.

* * *

 Greg's week passes without incident. No major murders, robberies, or arsons, no Sherlock, no bickering. He manages to catch up on all his paperwork and Sunday afternoon rolls around before Greg knows it. He sets his glasses aside and rubs his eyes.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting."

Greg looks up, a smile already on his face. "Mycroft, good to see you again, I was starting to worry."

"Yes, my apologies. My work often has me travelling and the mobile coverage can be rather atrocious." Mycroft enters, looking as pristine as ever, and leans on his umbrella. "How have you been?"

"Oh, I'm surviving" Greg comes around his desk and crosses his arms. "Been playing my guitar again, babysitting Sherlock, who's doing fine by the way. What about you?"

"My life has been painfully boring I'm afraid. Meetings and insufferable politicians with dreams of grandeur."

Greg leans against his desk as he chuckles. Mycroft smiles that soft smile that he seems to reserve for those close to him. At least, that's what Greg assumes, it definitely isn't the same one he gives Sherlock or Sally. Greg looks up and a moment of confusion passes through him; a small red dot squiggles against Mycroft's forehead.

"Shite, get down!" In a flash Greg has Mycroft on the ground as a shot rings out and a bullet lodges in the wall where he had been standing.

Greg scrambles up, his back pressing against his desk. Hard footsteps stop just outside his office.

"Greg what the hell was that!"

"Donovan, lockdown, sniper somewhere outside!"

"On it!" Her footsteps crack loudly against the tile as she starts barking orders.

Greg curses under his breath as he glances back behind his desk; glass shards glitter on the floor. He'd been shot at before, but God he'd never been unlucky enough to witness someone having their head blown off. He turns his attention back to Mycroft who has moved to sit a good distance away from him. Strange.

"What did you say you do again?"

"I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"Minor position my arse! I'm supposed to believe you almost got shot in my office over a _minor_  position?"

Mycroft's eyes flick briefly over Greg's face before quickly looking away. His phone vibrates and in a flash he has it answered. The conversation is brief and one sided, Mycroft merely humming before ending the call.

"The sniper has been apprehended." He stands and dusts off his suit. "MI5 agents will arrive shortly to clear the building."

Greg gets to his feet, knees popping in protest, and frowns. "Right, does that happen a lot?"

Mycroft offers one of those fake smiles he uses for the public at large. What the hell? He hadn't received one of those in quite a while.

"It has been known to occur."

"Are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine."

"Mycroft-"

"-Boss." Sally, and two men in suits, stand at the door. "Gentlemen here say alls clear. You okay?"

"Fine, Mr. Holmes-"

"As I said Detective Inspector, now, I'm afraid I must be off. Good day."

"Oh, uh, yeah, course. Have a-" but Mycroft and the two suits were already gone. "Good one. Shite."

"I didn't even get the building locked down and bloody MI5 is in here saying all clear. What the hell is all that about?"

"Fuck if I know" Greg huffs as he leans against the doorframe. "I haven't seen Mycroft so cold since the first time we met. Almost like he shut down."

"Almost getting shot might do it." Sally scoffs. "I mean he's always pretty nice with you but..." Sally frowns a bit as she moves in front of Greg. "Oh my God, Greg, your hair!"

"Oy, you almost get shot and dive into the floor; see how your hair looks" he grumbles as he flattens down his hair.

"No, I mean your _hair_ " she points to her left ear. "Greg, it's blending together."

"Sally really-"

"I'm not messing, your hair is blending."

Greg rushes down the hall to the restroom, the door bangs loudly against the wall as he throws it open. He leans over the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. His skin is flushed, and there, just above his left ear, a few small grey hairs have mixed into the auburn. He swallows hard before running from the room. He flies down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he bursts through the front doors there's no sign of Mycroft or his usual black cars. Greg looks frantically down the street as he catches his breath.

"Well fuck."

Greg calls Mycroft and it goes to voicemail. He calls again. And again. The fourth time it goes straight to voicemail.

"Mycroft. I need you to call me back, it's urgent."

Greg scrubs his hand through his hair as he paces in front of the Met. He calls again; voicemail.

"Dammit Mycroft" he mutters as he calls Sally instead.

"Donovan."

"Sally I've gotta go find out where Mycroft went."

"Got it, good luck."

"Ta."

Greg jogs around to his car and is out onto the street in record time. He doesn't hesitate as he navigates familiar streets.

* * *

 When he arrives at Sherlock's newest flat, 221B Baker St, he notes the ungodly racket coming from the building. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson he reminds himself, is kind enough and seems almost amused at the noise. Greg mounts the stairs and throws the door open to reveal Sherlock absolutely abusing a violin in front of the window.

"Dear God, what are you doing?"

"Don't be stupid."

Greg takes a steadying breath as he moves to stand in front of the younger man. "I need to find your brother."

"Dull."

"Sherlock I'm not playing around here" Greg snatches the bow from his hand and tosses it to the sofa.

Sherlock scowls before turning his laser like focus on Greg. "Finally caught up I see."

"Sherlock-"

"-Of course we had it figured out the moment you and he were in the same room, obvious really. I'll give you that he hides his hair well, but really. Did it not seem odd how quickly he seemed to take to you? Though I am loathe to admit it, he and I share the sole trait that we do not _do_ people. Idiotic members of the public, stumbling through life blindly." Sherlock puts his violin away and flops onto the couch, sliding his bow to the floor. "Now, I suspect Mycroft is distancing himself from the issue at hand, no need to stay and listen to yet another embarrassing rejection."

Greg clenches his jaw and crosses his arms as Sherlock gleefully picks up his phone. "Thank God it's just one trait..."

"You'll have to tell me exactly what happened but-" Sherlock's eyes narrow as he looks at his phone. "He rejected my call."

"Yeah he's not answering mine either."

Sherlock dials again and scowls. He dials once more."Inconsequential, he  _always_ answers my calls. Ah." He pauses, eyes narrowing. "You're not Mycroft."

Greg paces as Sherlock rips apart whoever is on the other end of the phone before hanging up. "He's turned off his phone and the emergency line is being monitored. He's out of the country."

"What? An hour ago he was chatting in my office."

"Yes and now he could be anywhere. The benefits to having a private jet."

"What the hell does he do?"

"He _is_  the British government, he's paid to be nosey and take care of all those issues with pesky moral dilemmas the usual idiots couldn't handle."

"MI5?"

"And 6."

"Christ."

"Not quite." Sherlock drops his phone to his chest and presses his fingers together. "He'll be back once you've moved on."

"Excuse me?" Greg scowls.

"Instead of facing obvious rejection he's fled the country to wait out you inevitably moving on to more serious prospects."

"Hold on," Greg holds up a hand. "I never got a chance to say anything."

"No need really-"

"-Says you." Sherlock looks over at him. "If Mycroft thinks I'm not interested, it's because he wasn't paying attention."

Sherlock sits up and frowns at Greg. "You're interested in _Mycroft_?"

"Yeah, problem?" Greg stares Sherlock down, daring him to say something. "If you reach him let me know."

Greg doesn't wait for a reply. Out on the street he calls Mycroft again.

"You're wrong, but I'm a stubborn bastard so I'll be waiting for you when you get back." Greg sighs as a light drizzle begins. "Dammit Mycroft."

* * *

Somewhere far off, Mycroft sits on a plane and stares blankly out of the window. A blanket of large grey clouds fill his vision as rain drops run down the window.

"Sir."

"Yes?" He all but sighs.

"A new message, sir."

Mycroft looks over at Anthea, offering up a phone while texting on another. He debates ignoring it. Greg's first message had been an urgent request for him to call back, he ignored him of course. Sherlock had insulted some poor man monitoring the emergency line and had sent a few scathing texts, nothing new really. 

"I think this one is important sir."

Mycroft takes the phone and presses play with none of the hesitance he feels.

 _"You're wrong, but I'm a stubborn bastard so I'll be waiting for you when you get back."_ Greg sighs and in the moment of silence following Mycroft can hear cars passing over wet streets, the familiar sound of Sherlock playing the violin, and the suddenly loud, unmistakable, sound of a rough hand running over coarse stubble. _"Dammit Mycroft."_

Mycroft looks at the phone in his hand, runs over the message again and again in his mind. He holds the device a bit tighter as he turns his attention back out the window, watching Anthea's reflection as she walks away. He closes his eyes a moment and takes a slow breath.

"We shall see Gregory. We shall see."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? I live for your comments!
> 
> Next week we get a Dark/Angst chapter that will be an alternative Ch3; Ch3 B. Thanks for sticking around everyone.


	4. Trouble at Your Doorstep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late, but Greg is a good friend. Mycroft is hurt, drugged, confused, and so not ready to deal with any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here we are at Ch 4! Can't believe it really. 
> 
> So you'll see some familiar dialogue in this chapter, borrowed a bit at the beginning and the end to tie this in nicely with chapters 3 and 5.
> 
> REMEMBER! This is a divergence chapter, the events of chapter 3 are totally seperate.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The single hit is hard but slow. Greg wonders who the hell would be at his door at 1 in the morning...._

"Oy I'm comin" he groans as the person bangs louder on the door. He pulls open the door and almost jumps out of his skin. "Mycroft! Jesus Christ, what happened?"

Mycroft leans against the doorframe. In place of his usual threepiece is a bloodied dress shirt, no tie, and unbuttoned halfway, torn black trousers, and standing, much to Greg's shock, barefoot. Greg quickly pulls him inside and settles him on the couch, only then does he notice Mycroft holding his  right side.

"You're hurt."

Mycroft takes a few slow breaths as Greg gently moves his bloodied fingers from the wound. A long, shallow, cut travels from mid rib to stomach.

"Look, let me get my kit and then we'll get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Mycroft sort of lazily blinks in his direction, which Greg takes for a yes. He quickly gathers some supplies. His medical kit is pretty extensive and, thanks to Sherlock, he'd gotten pretty damn good at getting his stitches all in a line. He sets up all his supplies on his bathroom counter and fetches a clean set of clothes. When he returns Mycroft has his head leaned back on the couch, eyes closed.

"Mycroft..." Greg frowns as the man slowly opens his eyes, his pupils blown wide. "God, you've been drugged." Greg drags a hand down his face and curses under his breath. "Do you know what they drugged you with?"

Mycroft swallows slowly. "...Ket..amine... "

"Jesus." Greg weighs out his options, there aren't many. "That wound needs stitches, I'm gonna help you up, get you cleaned off and then stitch you up okay?"

Mycroft almost falls off the couch as he leans forward, Greg just barely manages to steady him.

"Tunnel...vis..ion..."

Greg shakes his head. "You fucking Holmeses will be the bloody death of me. Now up you go."

* * *

 

Between the two of them, they manage to get Mycroft to his feet and stumble to the bathroom, Greg supporting most of his weight. He hesitates a moment as he steadies the wobbling man.

"Okay. We got here, now comes the fun part." He gently moves Mycroft to lean against the wall before turning on the shower. "That wound needs washing out, and you're covered in blood and dirt. You're gonna have to let me help you."

Greg purses his lips as Mycroft shakes his head. His hands attempt to grip the wall as he sways with the effort.

"You're really gonna choose now to be difficult? Do you want that to get infected?" Greg scoffs. "Oy, are you trying to pout at me?"

Mycroft makes a face somewhere between a pout and a grimace. Greg just shakes his head as he adjusts the water temperature.

"If I can manhandle Sherlock into a shower, I'm sure as hell not afraid to do it to you too. Now, are you gonna cooperate or am I tossing you in fully clothed?"

Mycroft seems to debate the question, his eyelids manage to open marginally wider as he slowly flicks his gaze over Greg's face. His hands twitch ever so slightly against the wall. Sighing, he finally attempts to unbutton his ruined shirt. Greg moves in closer.

"Here, I've got you." He moves Mycroft's shaking hands away.

Neither man speaks as Greg makes quick, but careful, work of Mycroft's clothes. Despite his perfunctory actions, he can't help but note several old scars on the man as the layers are shed. A particularly nasty one over his left hipbone draws Greg's eye. It's clearly old, and also very clearly a gunshot wound, but with a small bit of ragged scar tissue around it, almost like someone had dug out the bullet. As he helps Mycroft step under the warm water, he notices a much cleaner scar up the side of the same hip, a thin pink line curving back. Greg pulls his mind back to the task at hand.

Mycroft is still worryingly complacent as Greg gently cleans his wound. He sways slightly as Greg washes some of the grime from his chest and shoulders. Greg pauses at his neck, on the back is a splotchy red rash reminiscent of a bullseye. Injection site. He gently washes the area off before moving on.

"Can you tilt your head back?"

Mycroft raises his head slightly before letting it fall again. "Dizzy..."

"'S alright, just turn and close your eyes."

Mycroft manages and Greg makes quick work of washing the grime from his hair. He can't help but smile, it looks much more red than usual.

Cleaner, and mostly dry, Mycroft sits on the toilet lid while Greg cleans his wound with an iodine pad. Greg worries that Mycroft doesn't even flinch as he threads the first stitch through. Halfway through he pauses and Mycroft sighs softly.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yes, just tired."

"Ah, an actual sentence," Greg chuckles as he switches knees. "That's a good sign."

Mycroft gives him a weak smile. Greg returns to his work, each stitch slow and deliberate. He ties off the end and smooths a large plaster over it.

"There, good as new."

Greg packs away his medical kit and tosses the surgical needle in a small bowl to be discarded later. He picks up the clothes he grabbed and assists Mycroft in getting dressed. He allows himself a small thought, that Mycroft looks good in a casual tee and sweatpants. Mycroft leans hard into Greg's side as they maneuver to the bedroom, exhaustion finally taking over. As Greg helps him into bed he suddenly notices the small patch of silver hair over his left ear, mixing ever so slightly with the auburn. His mind whirls briefly, every moment and action between them coming into a new light. He quickly tamps down the train of thought, it's really not the time, and instead offers a reassuring smile.

"I'll leave you something for the pain, and I'll be on the couch if you need me."

Mycroft closes his eyes, his hand shakily coming up to smooth over the hair over his left ear. When he opens his eyes he glances over to Greg.

"We can talk about it in the morning." His own hand mirrors the action. "Get some sleep Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes slip shut, and he's asleep before Greg leaves the room.

* * *

 

Greg wakes up to late morning sunlight streaming into the living room. He groans as his back pops and cracks as he stretches.

"God that smarts."

He pulls himself up and roams to the kitchen. He starts up his ancient coffee maker and throws a kettle on as an afterthought. A quick trip to the bathroom later, and he's off to check on Mycroft. He vaguely acknowledges that there's a good chance he's not even there. Popped off to who knows where half drugged and with amateur stitches. With that thought in his head, it's almost a shock when he pokes his head in and sees a lump curled up under the covers. He leans against the door as he contemplates his situation.

He now knows Mycroft's job is... well, he doesn't _know_ , but he has a good feeling it's actually something both very important and very secret. Sherlock always says he is the British government, and Greg is starting to think he's MI5 at the very least. Mycroft has had his fair share of blows for a man who dresses like he's never worked a day in his life. The rather interesting scars on his hip explain why he walks with his umbrella as a cane. Despite the speculation, the guesses, the questions; he is **positive**  that Mycroft is his soulmate. For once he's actually glad for his very distinguishing silver hair. He sighs, there's no way Mycroft will make this easy. However much they bicker, Mycroft and Sherlock have some very annoying similarities.

"Alright. Rise and shine, Mycroft!" Greg strolls to the window and pulls back the curtains. "I need to check your stitches and we should probably get ahold of your terrifying PA."

Greg looks back to find the lump under the covers shuffling away from the light. Good sign at least.

"Come on, out of bed. You can sleep after I take care of those stitches."

A grumble is the only response he receives. Greg rolls his eyes and crosses to the bed. In a flash, he has the covers pulled down, exposing Mycroft's torso. Mycroft groans and curls into himself.

"Up you get," Greg moves around to sit beside him. "Come on then, the faster you get moving the faster you can go back to sleep."

Mycroft gingerly props himself up on his left arm. "What time is it?"

"1130, give or take."

He sighs and goes to run his free hand through his hair but stops, flinching. He hisses in pain as he glances down to his side.

"I've gotta check those."

"Of course."

Greg slides an arm under him, noting how he flinches away from the touch. He slides him up and pauses a moment as a his face goes a sickly sort of pale.

"You okay?"

"Yes, just.... nauseous."

"Here," he frees himself and hands over a glass and pill. "It might not help with waking up, but it'll help the nausea and maybe help take the swelling from the injection sight."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he takes the medication.

"Back of your neck, bright red bullseye."

"Splendid" he deadpans as Greg sets the glass aside.

"Good to see your sense of humour didn't suffer."

That works the smallest of smiles out of the man and Greg counts it as a win. He helps Mycroft to his feet, and can't help but notice him favoring his right leg. He's sure Mycroft notices him tucking him a little more securely to his side as they walk the short distance to the bathroom.

"If you don't mind."

Greg rolls his eyes, really there's no use in modesty at this point, but waits patiently to be summoned. He returns to the kitchen and pours a cup of tea and a cup of coffee for himself. After a time Mycroft calls him back in, a note of resignation in his voice. Greg smiles at Mycroft, his hair a mess and sulking silently. Greg is careful with his cut, he quickly changes the bandage, no oozing or busted stitches, and has him redressed in record time. As he helps Mycroft back into bed he hands over his phone.

"I figure you need to let someone know you're alright."

"Thank you Gregory." Mycroft turns the mobile over in his hands. "You have been incredibly kind, given the circumstances of my arrival."

"Ah, piss off," he laughs. "You're my mate, mates help out and don't ask too many questions." He winks as he heads to the door. "I'll get out of your hair for a second and bring you something to eat."

* * *

 

With Mycroft clean and fed and back asleep, Greg decides that he could use some more rest as well. It seemed the night had lasted forever and the events were taking a bigger toll on him than he expected. He stretches out on his couch, just a touch too short, and finds himself drifting easily back to sleep.

When he wakes for the second time, he immediately notices a note on the end table. He sits up groggily and picks it up.

' _Detective Inspector,_

_I_ _thank_ _you for your assistance_ _with_ _Mr. Holmes. Rest assured, he will be seen by his personal physician and any need taken care of. Your help will be appropriately compensated._

  
_Respectfully,_   
_Anthea, Personal Assistant_

_Office of M. Holmes, Division of Transportation, London, England'_

Greg shakes his head and picks up his phone. He's not surprised when it goes to voice mail.

"You're a right arse, leaving without even talking about this... but I'm a stubborn bastard, so I'll be waiting for you when you're ready." Greg sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Dammit Mycroft."

* * *

Somewhere far off, Mycroft sits in his office and stares blankly out of the large window. A blanket of large grey clouds fill his vision as rain drops begin to run down the window.

"Sir."

"Yes?" He all but sighs.

"A new message, sir."

Mycroft looks over at Anthea, offering up a phone while texting on another. He debates ignoring it. He really wasn't in any condition to deal with Gregory's response to his... unfortunate, discovery.

"I think this one is important sir."

Mycroft takes the phone and presses play with none of the hesitance he feels.

"You're a right arse, leaving without even talking about this... but I'm a stubborn bastard, so I'll be waiting for you when you're ready." Greg sighs and in the moment of silence following Mycroft can hear the white noise of the telly, the gurgle of a coffee maker, and the faintest sound of a rough hand sliding through short hair. "Dammit Mycroft."

Mycroft looks at the phone in his hand, runs over the message again and again in his mind. He holds the device a bit tighter as he turns his attention back out the window, watching Anthea's reflection as she walks away. He closes his eyes a moment and takes a slow breath.

"We shall see Gregory. We shall see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how was it? I live for your comments.
> 
> Next week we should be wrapping everything up in a nice little bow, it's absolutely crazy.
> 
> Thanks for following me on this super fun journey.


	5. Can't Deny It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft can't run away forever. Greg gets injured this time around. The two finally meet up and begin to sort things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Welcome, to the final chapter!
> 
> As always, enjoy!

Greg's next month passes in a blur thank to an unlucky alliance of a serial killer and an arsonist. His days are filled with chasing after Sherlock and reigning in his team's tempers. His days drag on long into the night, his sleep suffers. He's more caffeine and fast food than human by mid month. Despite his schedule, the childish arguments with Sherlock, the frayed nerves of everyone he works with, he manages to set aside a small amount of time each day for himself. He sits down with a cold beer and dials a now familiar number. It goes straight to voicemail, as usual. Greg just smiles.

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes finds out rather quickly that his PA is far too good at her job. His month of meetings in London turn into barely 2 weeks of meetings in various countries, mostly the same time zone, unfortunately. His usual power play of forcing meetings in London, somehow manages to work just as well in reverse. The various dignitaries, councilmen, senators, etc. seem to be moved by his 'generosity' in coming to them. Some of the more difficult problems get resolved with surprising ease. So, it's with a growing sense of restlessness that Mycroft stands on a balcony overlooking the early morning cityscape of Wellington, New Zealand. He sips at his scotch as he gazes into the middle distance. A light breeze cools the hot night air.

He looks to his phone, the only calendar appointment left is in 3 days with several Americans who had been adamant on keeping their London meeting. Mycroft downs the last of his drink and makes his way downstairs. As he flips on the light he blinks in surprise. On the kitchen island is a small bowl of water, black rocks, and a small silver goldfish. Mycroft approaches, the kitchen tiles cold against his bare feet. He picks up a small note next to the bowl.

'His name is Greg.'

Mycroft flicks his eyes to the small fish, floating calmly in his little bowl. He picks it up and slowly heads back upstairs, he places the little bowl on his dresser and sighs. He shoots a text to Anthea requesting fish food and for a decent tank to be set up at his house back in London. He adds in "I believe you know why", her only response, however, is a simple "Yes, sir". Mycroft purses his lips as he watches the little fish swim around its bowl, silver fins reflecting the light. As it turns in the bowl, Mycroft sees a small patch of red scales behind its gills on the left side. He shakes his head as he moves to ppur another glass of scotch before retiring to a couch across from the goldfish. He pulls out his personal cell, the usual voicemail notification greets him. He presses play.

* * *

 

"Mycroft, hope your day's going better than mine." Greg sighs as he props his feet up on the coffee table. "Your brother is a right arse, winding up my team for no reason. Hell, Anderson almost decked him and I was almost ready to let him do it. I might've given him a good whack upside the head when no one was around." He laughs softly as he sips his beer. "Speaking of Sherlock, he left me a, uh, a gift? I guess? Came back from lunch to a bleedin goldfish on my desk. Says his name is Mycroft. I had to go buy this damn thing a tank and everything."

Greg looks across to the tank he bought, a decent little 40L tank he picked up after work. He'd gotten some plain white rocks and a few small fake plants. Mycroft the fish drifts lazily across the tank, his large fantail flowing lightly behind him.

"Ah, he's actually nice to watch, kind of relaxing. He's red, with a single white spot just behind his gills on the left, strange coincidence eh?" Greg slowly swirls the bottle in his hand. "Sometimes I wonder if you listen to these... probably think I'm a nutter, calling each day. It's a nice though, just relaxing and-"

There's a pause and a soft curse, Mycroft pauses himself, glass restng lightly against his lips.

"Damn, another murder. Sorry to cut this short. Bye, Mycroft. I'm still waiting."

Mycroft eyes the phone in his hand as he ends the voicemail. Greg is persistent, or at the very least too stubborn for his own good. He'd kept up calling every single day for the entire month, even going so far as to call while clearly half asleep. He gives Gregory the fish another glance before standing and beginning to pack for his flight home.

* * *

 

Greg falls into his chair with a groan, Sherlock swishes in the door behind him and throws himself onto the couch in the corner. Greg stares at the ceiling as his whole body seems to throb in pain. Sherlock is silent, to his credit. The clock on the wall tells him it's 8am. 26 hours of near non stop work. Greg presses his hand over his mouth and just breathes.

After the call, Greg and his team were out at the newest murder scene within the hour, with Sherlock, of course. As the self proclaimed detective was deducing something or another about the victim, an explosion had rocked the building. Lucky for Greg, he was working with a bare bones staff and no one was seriously injured. He and Sherlock had managed to drag the body out before the building collapsed. Greg had stared at the pile of rubble while Sherlock ranted furiously about lost clues. All Greg could think of was how they could've both died. He turned, Sherlock was yelling something, pointing, before taking off. Cue a long, long, night of chasing their potential murderer through most of London. When they had finally cornered him around 4am the fucking maniac set himself on fire. They put him out quick enough that his phone and ID survived, but most of his body was covered in severe burns. Greg gave him a day at most, Sherlock gave him half. Long story short, arsonist isn't the brightest bulb and saved his messages to their killer. A long cab ride to suspected killers residence turned up an amateur booby trap and an empty flat.

Greg rolls his shoulder and sighs, definitely bruised. His right ankle was starting to pop fairly ominously as well. Sherlock seems fine for the most part, his busted lip the only evidence of their night. Greg had taken the brunt of the trap set for them after all. Sherlock stands suddenly, slipping his phone into his coat.

"And where are you going?" Greg sighs as he leans forward on his desk.

"I need to think, somewhere all these idiots can't interrupt."

"Hey!-"

"Goodbye Lestrade."

Greg throws his hands up before crossing his arms on his desk and laying his head on them. No use arguing with him when he gets like this. Greg closes his eyes, feeling the nights exhaustion hit him full force. A small knock has him taking a slow breath before he sits up. He presses a hand over his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Such a warm welcome."

Greg's hand slaps down to the table a bit harder than he intends as his eyes snap to the man at his door. He _would_ look like death warmed over when Mycroft Holmes returned. He, of course, looks like his usual, posh self, gorgeous grey three piece, blue tie and matching pocket square, his umbrella propped neatly under his hand.

"Mycroft!" Greg is out of his chair and across the room in a heartbeat, his ankle and ribs protesting. He pulls Mycroft into a hug before he can think too hard on the action. "God, you're a sight for sore eyes."

Mycroft, for all his composure, freezes for a moment. His mind takes in all of Greg at once. Deduces his injuries, his sleeplessness, his mental condition, he comes to the conclusion that Greg is an impulsive creature just as his own body decides to respond. His free hand rests softly on Greg's side as he leans his head against rough grey hair. He lets the iceman persona melt just a bit as Greg smiles into his shoulder, presses his fingers into his back just a tad harder. Greg pulls away, his hands gripping Mycroft's shoulders, and just smiles at the man. Mycroft offers a small, nervous smile back, his fingertips still resting on Greg's side. And then Greg punches him in the shoulder. Hard.

"You're a right fucking prat you know that?" Greg limps back around his desk and slips back into his chair. "That's what you get for bloody leaving the country after the stunt you pulled."

Mycroft has the wherewithal to look appropriately chastised as he shuts the door and sits across from Greg. "I... apologise."

Greg looks into stormy grey-blue eyes and sighs. "Yeah, well, apology accepted, but on one condition."

"Certainly, you need only name it."

"Dinner. Me and you. We're gonna get take away to your place, you can tempt me with some good whiskey, and we're finally gonna sit down and have an adult conversation about-" he wiggles his finger between the two of them. "-this. Whatever _this_ is."

"Yes, of course."

"Good, I don't have it in me right now to put up a fight if you'd said no." Greg fishes out a bottle of painkillers from his desk. "Bloody exploding buildings and booby trapped flats." He swallows two pills down with a gulp of cold coffee. "Feels like I got run over by a lorry."

"Sherlock texted me, he said you were injured but not how."

Greg chuckles. "You're saying you don't know?"

"Putting words in my mouth Detective Inspector?" Mycroft smirks.

"I'll behave myself and not follow that path Mr. Holmes." Greg winks before leaning back in his chair. "Got smacked with a rock in the back at the initial scene. Then the bloke we tracked down had a few basic traps in his house. Bruised my shoulder and ribs, pretty sure my ankle is twisted too."

Mycroft had already assessed the potential damage when he'd walked in, still he nodded.

"Sherlock is off... thinking, or whatever it is he does, and I can't do anymore work until Molly gets me the autopsy report on our arsonist."

"You need to get some sleep Gregory."

"Yeah." Greg yawns as he rubs his eyes. "Yeah, the rest of the team too."

"Perhaps, you would come to mine? I'm sure I can obtain a set of clothing for you," Mycroft attempts to maintain eye contact, he's stared down assassins for Gods sake, but quickly finds himself studying Greg's desk. "If you would like to, of course."

Greg offers a rather sleepy grin. "I'd like that. Plus I can use your amazing shower, God I might just live in there for the next few hours."

"Really Gregory," Mycroft scoffs playfully as he stands. "With talk like that, I'll think you're only interested in me for the amenities."

"Ah, but what are the bits and bobs worth if there's no one to enjoy it with?"

Greg stands and slides on his coat. Mycroft's cheeks are slightly pink but he's still smiling that shy smile so Greg assumes that maybe things are starting to look up.

* * *

True to his word, Greg spends nearly an hour letting the massive shower soothe away his sore muscles. By the time he gets out he feels like jelly in the best sort of way. On the bed are a set of black pyjamas. Greg whistles softly, they look more expensive than even his best suit. He slips them on and, God they're soft, they're a perfect fit. He slides under warm covers and finds himself quickly drifting off to sleep.

While Greg sleeps, Mycroft, ever true to his word, arranges for take out to be picked up and picks out a nice whiskey to go with it. The hours tick by as he tries in vain to read through... he looks to the cover of his book and simply closes the thing, setting it aside. His fingers drum a fast beat against the arm of the couch as he slips into his mind. He organizes his thoughts about this whole ordeal, the absolute mortification of running from his problems is pushed to the back. He tries to think logically about the situation, but it seems his heart has decided to pick up its pace as he thinks about soft brown eyes and smooth tanned skin. He mentally berated himself and once again pulls facts to the forefront. Gregory is intelligent, despite Sherlock stating otherwise, he is caring, calm under pressure. He likes to watch football and drink beer as much as he likes to talk about politics and read. He is funny and seems to think Mycroft is interesting enough to stick around. He has gorgeous silver hair that is striking paired with his tanned skin. Mycroft blinks a few times as the thought spins through his head.

"This is a disaster" he deadpans as he closes his eyes.

"Well, good evening to you too sunshine."

Mycroft purses his lips as he fights a smile. "I didn't hear you come in Gregory."

"Mind palace thing?"

Mycroft looks to Greg who, lord help him, is absolutely stunning in the black pyjamas. They cling to his legs in just the right places and he has the top button undone, revealing silver chest hair. Mycroft's mind, usually so under control, plummets south and a blush springs to his cheeks before he can stop the thoughts.

"Such a childish name, really," he rises and quickly pours two glasses of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, returning to sit next to Greg on the sofa. "But yes. I was reorganizing some things."

"Always found that interesting." Greg laughs as he accepts his glass, fingers brushing Mycroft's. "I'm sure it helps with remembering things."

"Indeed."

The two sit in a slightly uncomfortable silence. The air is thick with anticipation of the conversation to come. Mycroft can't bring himself to begin. He's dealt with some of the most ruthless people in the world, yet can hardly bear to be in the same room as Greg. Greg who called him every day for nearly a full month just to show his dedication. Greg, who never gave any indication he even remotely felt... well... anything, for Mycroft other than friendship.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft hums in acknowledgment.

"I'm just gonna rip the plaster off." He takes a steadying breath before turning to face Mycroft. "Do you want to _try_  to do, er, this? Us? I mean, I haven't dated a bloke in years, but you're, well, you're you and I, well I mean, I'd like to. Date you, that is. God that came out badly."

Greg downs half his drink and Mycroft can't help but laugh. Greg looks startled for a moment before he joins in. The two laugh freely for a moment, the world forgotten  simply enjoying one another's company.

"Here I thought perhaps you had this well thought out plan."

"Hell no, I've been whinging it since I figured out you're my soulmate." Greg grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "You're my soulmate, Mycroft."

"Mm, yes, I believe that means you are mine as well, Gregory."

It's Greg's turn to turn red as he continues to smile like a fool. Mycroft finds the tension in the room has died off, their conversation beginning its usual flow.

"I feel should warn you though, my job is very demanding and I won't be able to tell you much about what I do. I also find myself travelling quite a bit, not usually for months at a time, but it does happen. Unfortunately, I am always on call as well." Mycroft swirls the amber liquid in his glass. "It has been... quite some time since I have attempted any sort of relationship. I find I may be rather out of my depth, loathe as I am to admit it."

"Well, my job isn't a big government secret, but I'm on call and work absolutely shite hours. No travelling really, unless I'm chasing Sherlock." Greg chuckles as he moves closer and turns to face Mycroft. "Talking things out is the best way to take this, Mycroft. Just talk to me when you need to and, I think things will be alright. I'll do the same. We'll figure it out, together."

Greg offers Mycroft his hand. The simple gesture offers him something more, something wonderful, and terrifying, and new. Mycroft finds himself turning and tentatively lacing his fingers with Greg's. He stares at their intertwined fingers, a whole future of possibilities starting out with such a simple gesture.

"You okay?"

Mycroft looks into those caring brown eyes and sees all the kindness and joy the world could ever know, all directed at him. He nods slowly his eyes taking in every inch of skin visible, lingering over his lips. Talk. That's how to move forward.

"Gregory, I think I'd like to kiss you."

Greg goes wide eyed for a second but seems delighted nonetheless. "That's the best idea I've heard all day."

Mycroft leans forward, slow and calculating, his other hand resting on Greg's knee. Greg stays still for his part, allowing Mycroft to control the pace. He pauses, their lips close but not yet touching. Mycroft's eyes slip shut as he moves the final distance. Their lips meet in a soft and chaste kiss, but to each it feels as if the weight of the world is pulled from their shoulders. They pull back just enough that they can feel the other smiling. This is only the beginning, of a wonderful new story.

Sometimes, love is only a hair's breadth away, you simply have to move to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, how was it? I live for your comments!
> 
> It's over everyone! My first multichapter fic is wrapped up in a nice little bow. I don't promise anything, but don't be shocked if a little epilogue pops up sometime. I feel like writing every week has really improved my mood so I'll be continuing to write every Sunday over on tumblr. Same name plus an apprentice blog if you're interested in Arcana, raxtheapprentice.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the support, kudos, and comments. Until next time!


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